


A Marriage Of Love

by Synekdokee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Connor cries, Contrived drama, Eventual Happy Ending, Fingering, Heartache, Human AU, M/M, Miscommunication, Royalty AU, Rutting, Smut, Trans Character, Trans Connor, vague historical AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-05-30 21:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: This will be it. Prince Connor is about to sign his whole life away, to leave everything he knows and loves behind and wed a king, a man he doesn’t even know.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been finished, I'm just working on proof-reading the second half to post it.

Queen Amanda had always been careful that her two sons would grow up with politics, not fairytales in mind.

Prince Richard, the heir apparent, had grown up to be an even-tempered pragmatic, with a good head for diplomacy and strategic plotting.

Prince Connor, younger than his brother by all of nine minutes, but slighter both in stature and in his mother’s eyes, was predisposed to flights of fancy. A day-dreamer at a young age, he had grown up to be accomplished in political matters, but a hopeless romantic.

And so, when Queen Amanda had announced that Connor was to be betrothed to His Royal Majesty King Henry Anderson of the neighbouring sovereignty, Connor had felt like a gigantic chasm had opened up under his feet.

A marriage of love. That had always been his one true wish. He had watched with worry at the cold, indifferent affair his mother and father had had. He’d seen the sharp pain and humiliation in his mother when his father had resorted to mistresses. He had sworn that he wouldn’t allow that to be his fate.

Richard was supposed to be the one who would be married off to some strange kingdom somewhere, the one to honour duty to the crown. They had long ago made peace with their respective fates - Richard would always have to put the country ahead of his own desires, while Connor could afford to live for himself, but face the truth that he’d always do it in the shadow of his brother.

And then Richard had returned from a border battle with a badly mangled leg, and by the time the diplomatic relations with their kingdom and Anderson’s had been forged, it was obvious Richard would never be physically whole again.

Amanda’s crown jewel had been chipped. And so the duty had fallen on Connor.

Connor knows little of his future husband. He is an older man, unmarried and without an heir.

“This is a political arrangement, I assure you you needn’t worry about breeding,” Amanda says coolly when Connor questions her about the fledgling Anderson bloodline.

Connor flinches, his face heating up with humiliation. Amanda’s cut-throat approach to these matters has always struck Connor somewhere tender, and he swallows thickly, unable to voice his real concern.

“He is informed he is marrying a man, then?” Richard insists in his stead, and Connor feels a terrible weight release his chest.

Amanda gives them a hard look. “I would expect my sons to know me better than think I would attempt to mislead a king by promising him a bride in place of a husband,” she says, and from her tone it’s clear the matter is closed.

Connor seeks his tutor’s opinion. He learns that King Henry Anderson II is known to be a fair ruler, a man who does not seek war but is ruthless and strategic when it calls, and more focused on his duties than banquets and balls.

Connor wonders what the king knows of him. Richard has always been the one out of the two of them to be in public eye. As the heir to the throne he’s the one to have his life in the history books. Connor will be somewhere in the footnotes, mentioned in passing.

Has king Anderson sent queries about him? Has he requested a list of Connor’s hobbies, asked about his temperament or his looks?

The morning of the king’s arrival dawns bright and sunny, unusually warm for the spring season. Connor has hardly slept, spending the night tossing and turning, anxiety and excitement making his thoughts race. He rises before his valet enters, whiling away time by making lists of what books to ask to be packed and he will leave for Richard.

Slowly the palace begins to awake. Connor can hear the quiet movement of the servants in the corridors, and can see them rushing around in the courtyard under his window, preparing for such a special day.

Eventually Connor’s valet enters - as old and rickety as he is short-tempered. Connor will miss him dearly.

Connor allows himself to be dressed, even though every inch of his body is coiled tight with nerves. It’s just as well - he’s too wound up to do the clasps and buttons of his intricate wardrobe himself.

”You look very fine, if I may be so bold, sir,” his valet says, puffing his chest out with vain pride.

Connor looks at himself in the ornate mirror, admiring the way the midnight blue silk and velvet garments sit on his willowy form, tailored perfectly to flatter him. Delicate silver embroidery decorates the blue, forming clusters of stars on his sleeves and breast. It’s true - he looks every inch like a prince, his mother having spared no expense at making Connor as appealing a prospect to the king as possible.

”Just the final touch,” his valet says, and reaches to place the filigree crown, forged of platinum and embedded with sapphires shaped like tears and dotted with pearls and cut diamonds. The jewels catch the morning sun and send fractured rainbows skittering along the room, a halo of light as Connor moves.

”It looks better on you than me,” a familiar voice says.

Connor smiles at his reflection. Soon his brother steps into view in the mirror, his pale eyes tender as he takes in Connor’s clothes. Connor meets his gaze in the mirror.

”It was made for you,” he says softly, touching a finger to one of the blue stones, originally made to flatter Richard’s blue eyes.

”Best laid plans, brother dear,” Richard sighs, moving closer. His limp is less prominent today, the warm weather easing the old injury. On his own head he carries a much less ornate crown, one made of gold so highly polished its gleam is blinding, garnished with rubies the size of strawberries. Amanda truly has dug out the family heirlooms.

”I’m sorry,” Richard says, resting a hand on Connor’s shoulder. ”I know how much you had hoped to meet a charming prince and run away to live together happily ever after in love.”

Connor groans, shoving Richard away.

”You’re not as endearing as you think,” he grumbles, reaching to fiddle with his crown, already perfectly centered.

Richard grins. ”No? Perhaps a roguish stable lad then, one to sweep you off your feet and ride into the sunset with you?”

Connor blushes, reaching for his belt to attach the ceremonial sword to his hip.

“You’re a bit of a bastard,” Connor complains, but there’s no bite to his words.

“One may dream,” Richard mutters under his breath. Connor pointedly ignores him.

“Besides, all those strapping young men were always your secret daydreams,” Connor says haughtily. “Not mine. I have different tastes altogether.”

“Oh, of course, brother,” Richard drawls, and Connor can tell he’s resisting rolling his eyes. “You would like a hardy soldier, or perhaps a man of the forest-” he breaks off into laughter, ducking the book Connor has haphazardly thrown his way.

“Subjected to such humiliation in my own rooms!” Connor cries, acting scandalised. Richard grins at him, picking up the book and placing it on a table.

”Well, it doesn’t matter now, no stable lads for me,” Connor sighs, ambivalence gripping him again. He’s heard the king to be quite handsome, but he’s also quite a bit older than Connor. And the maids always gossip, you can’t trust a damn thing they say. What if he turns out to be a rickety old bastard? Would a good man turn down a prince just because of a war injury?

”You’ve left me again,” Richard says dryly, and Connor shakes himself out of his thoughts.

”Apologies, brother. I admit I am... having second thoughts.”

”Too late now,” Richard says. ”I’d offer to switch places, but I believe the king will sniff out the cripple easily,” he says snidely.

”Don’t,” Connor pleads him. He hates it when Richard speaks of himself like that. Like he’s disposable, as though being wounded while defending his country and people isn’t something a future king should be proud of.

Richard’s expression softens, and he reaches out to tuck a stray curl of hair behind Connor’s ear.

”It will be fine, little brother,” he says gently. ”No man, no matter how cold their heart may be, can look at you without falling to his knees.”

Connor huffs, trying to hide his pleasure. He hopes King Anderson will find him pleasing. As much as Connor fears their union, even more terrifying is the thought that the king might reject him on sight.

The whole court seems to have congregated at the courtyard, and then some. Plenty of villagers have gathered around the roads to catch a glimpse of the foreign king’s entourage, to see the man who has been betrothed to their prince.

Connor stands by the staircase leading to the palace, Richard at his side dressed in the finest fabrics in cream and gold, hiding his own nervousness much better than Connor. Their mother stands at the front of the gathering with her guards dressed in deep maroon velvet, ready to welcome the king with proper etiquette.

Connor’s stomach lurches when the carriages enter their view, travelling swiftly along the oak-lined road. The first two are fancy enough in their own right, but following them is a grand affair, a carriage in white and gold with ornate, royal blue accents.

”Well, someone is certainly showing off,” Richard mutters, and Connor elbows him surreptitiously.

Connor can hardly stand still as they watch the carriages draw near. He feels sick, battling the desire to escape. He feels as though he is hardly in his own body.

This will be it. He’s about to sign his whole life away, to leave everything he knows and loves behind and wed a man he doesn’t even know. He swallows around the lump in his throat and reaches for Richard’s hand. Richard squeezes his hand tightly, reassuring, a reminder of their bond. Whatever happens Connor knows he’ll always have Richard’s support.

The carriages pull up in the courtyard, the king’s opulent ride stopping in front of Amanda.

The world falls silent with tension, and Connor fears his legs might give out.

A valet emerges to open the carriage door, and Connor holds his breath, trying to stop himself from shaking.

The king emerges from the carriage, and Connor lets out a soft sound.

The king is nothing like he’d expected. Large, built like a work-horse, he has the air of a man capable of commanding armies. He is dressed in white silk, and while his clothes are not elaborate, their practical, well-fitting design makes him look every inch the ruler he is. The gold crown on his shorn grey hair is simple, less for boasting and more for showing his status.

Connor’s heart flutters in his chest like the wings of a bird beating, and he squeezes Richard’s hand even tighter. Richard glances at his breathless face, and raises an eyebrow.

”Oh, here we go,” he drawls with a roll of his eyes, but Connor pays him no mind. He only has eyes for his husband-to-be. Perhaps there is hope after all - Connor can’t believe a man who carries himself with such an air of integrity and proud dignity could be all bad.

Connor watches the king and Amanda speak, though the words don’t carry. He waits, heart hammering, aching for the king to glance towards him.

’ _Notice me_ ’, Connor pleads in his mind. ’ _Please, notice me._ ’

As though under a spell, the king turns his gaze towards him, his blue eyes falling on Connor, and for a moment Connor forgets how to breathe. The king blinks slowly, and then turns his attention back to the Queen.

Connor tries to not feel disappointed.

Minutes pass, and finally Amanda directs the king towards the stairs. Richard lets go of Connor’s hand and steps aside, and Connor finds himself alone, pinned in place by the king’s steely gaze.

”My son, His Royal Highness Prince Connor,” Amanda says, voice sweet as honey.

Connor bows politely, averting his eyes from the king’s, and then takes his hand to press his lips to it.

”It’s an honour, Your Majesty,” he says softly, finally glancing up.

There’s a hint of a smile on the king’s lips, and Connor feels his heart skip a beat.

“Likewise, my prince,” the king says. “I have heard much about you - you are a bright young man, it seems.”

Connor’s cheeks grow warm and he smiles at the king, the pleasure over such easy flattery curling in his belly.

Their meeting is short. Amanda leads the king into the throne room, and the doors are barred and guarded. Connor waits outside, alone, wringing his hands while his mother seals the conditions and signs away his freedom.

The sun is high in the sky when the doors open and the king and queen emerge with their guards and advisors. The king glances at Connor with something akin to curiosity in his eyes and continues past him.

”The matters are settled,” Amanda informs Connor. ”We are to head to the chapel immediately.”

Connor balks.

”But the ceremony wasn’t supposed to happen until the day after tomorrow,” he says, a little panicked. ”I’m not prepared, it’s far too fast, this hardly fair-”

Amanda lifts her hand, and Connor falls silent.

”The king has stipulated that the marriage take place immediately. And to be frank, I see no reason to drag things on. I will call for the carriage to be prepared, and you will continue with the king to his palace. The banquet, we have agreed, will take place there.”

With that she leaves, and Connor remains alone, shocked into inaction in the echoing hall.

Richard hurries towards him as Connor watches the servants carry his belongings to carts.

”Is it true?” Richard asks, voice distressed. ”Are you leaving today?”

Connor nods numbly. ”King Anderson has ordered it so.”

Richard sputters. ”But that’s unheard of! It is customary in our family for the wedding to take place after appropriate courting, and to have the banquet in a strange kingdom? It’s preposterous!”

”It doesn’t matter,” Connor says quietly. ”It has all been signed and sealed.”

Richard falls silent, staring at Connor. Then, with a choked sound, he throws his arms around him and holds him tight.

”I’m so sorry, Connor. It should’ve been me,” he murmurs.

Connor wraps his arms around his brother’s shaking back, embracing him for the last time at home.

When asked later, Connor can’t recall many memories of the ceremony. It passes in a fog - he’s aware of Richard by his side as he walks down the aisle, surrounded by nobility. He remembers his husband’s blue eyes and unreadable face. He remembers his vows spilling from his lips as though spoken by someone else.

The only vivid memory he has is of the king - his husband, under God and Law, now - taking his hand in his to lead him out of the chapel. It is the second time they’ve touched.

Then, slowly, the world returns to focus and the haze evaporates. Connor climbs into the carriage and the king settles in next to him as they began their ride to what will now be Connor’s home. Through the throngs of curious people trying to catch a glimpse as they ride through the town, most of them torn between celebrating the joining of the two kingdoms and being doubtful of the rushed nature of things.

Connor watches out of the windows as his home disappears from view, and slowly the familiar towns and fields of his kingdom change and turn into dense pine forests and mountain landscapes.

They ride in silence.

The king has in his lap a thick, leather-bound book, into which he writes the occasional note. Connor is scared of interrupting him, and he spends the time studying the man that is now his wedded husband, his king, in the name of God.

He is handsome, Connor can’t deny it. It’s the sort of thing Richard would tease him for - never one to go for the conventional types, Connor had always chosen to be infatuated by men who were carved out of a rougher material.

And his king fits the pattern. A little worn by age, but like a fine, strong oak tree, sturdy and proud. His silver hair and and beard make him look distinguished, and Connor spares a secret thought to wondering how those whiskers might feel on his skin.

Tonight, he thinks, dread and desire battling for rule inside him. Tonight they will consummate their marriage, and Connor will for know sure what kind of a man he has married. He has heard horror stories, of men who give not a whit about the pleasure of others - or worse, enjoy inflicting pain. But he has also heard stories that have made his cheeks flush and heat bloom between his legs.

He glances at the king’s hands, large and capable looking, and suppresses a shiver.

Finally the king places the book away and turns to look at Connor.

”Finally alone,” he says, his tone kind, friendly. Connor smiles at him. Already he’s found that the king has a pleasing voice, low and gravelly. ”I hope you don’t mind the sudden changes?”

Connor worries his bottom lip, wondering how honest to be.

”I admit I was taken aback,” he says carefully. ”I had been promised we would have time to get to know each other.”

The king grunts, glancing out of the window.

”I decided it would be an unnecessary delay,” he says. ”I’m sure we’re both aware of the nature of this arrangement. Whether we like each other or not isn’t something to concern with.”

Connor feels his chest grow tight.

”Surely it would be more beneficial if we were... so to speak, a good match?”

The king huffs out a laugh, opening his book again.

”If I was looking for a good match, I would not have married a man almost half my age,” he says dryly.

Connor swallows, trying to ignore the ache in his chest.

”Of course, sir,” he says softly.

”Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” the king says. ”You will have your own chambers and I will not impose on you. You will lead your own life, and I will lead mine, and rarely the twain shall meet.”

Connor tangles his hands together, gripping them tight as disappointment wells inside him.

”Yes, sir,” he whispers.

The king seems satisfied, and they don’t speak more.

The swaying of the carriage begins to tire Connor, and his head is full of terrible, desperate thoughts that he can’t escape. He thought being rejected officially would have been the worst outcome here, but now he knows the pain of indifference. Is this what his life will be?

He closes his eyes and drifts off into restless sleep, plagued by nightmares overwhelmingly full of loneliness.

Connor thinks he feels something brush his brow, and he stirs. His cheek is resting on something warm and broad, something... something with a heart-beat.

He jolts up with a gasp, meeting the king’s amused gaze. Connor realises they’ve come to a stop, and he wonders how long the king had let him sleep like that.

”My apologies, sir, I didn’t-”

”It’s fine,” the king says curtly. ”You’ve had a long day. You may freshen up before the banquet, Kara will be your lady in waiting.”

With that he climbs out of the carriage, and stands outside until Connor clambers after him. Still groggy from the uncomfortable rest, Connor stumbles, falling against the king’s broad chest.

The king sets him upright easily enough, giving Connor a raised eyebrow, looking quite amused.

”Hopefully your balance is better when you dance,” he says dryly, and heads towards the palace.

Connor stares up at the looming building. It’s nothing like his old home - it’s cold and dark, even with the windows lit. It looks unwelcoming, barren.

Connor watches his husband’s figure disappear inside, leaving him standing in the courtyard - surrounded by guards and servants, and utterly alone.  
.  
Finally, unbidden and silent, the tears come.

Kara, his lady in waiting, followed by a pair of guards, lead him to his rooms. They are joined with king’s quarters by a heavy door, but all of Connor’s possessions are in here.

”I’d like to be alone,” Connor says, and his servants pause their unpacking and leave him be.

He sits on the edge of his bed, staring out of the high windows. He feels drained and empty. Despite all of his misgivings and fears, deep down he’d had hopes that things would work out. That his husband would turn out to be a warm, loving man.

He almost wishes the king had shown cruelty towards him. The benevolent dismissal makes him ache - he’s spent his whole life in Richard’s shadow. As the younger twin by a matter of minutes, he had been unfortunate in his insignificance. Only happenstance had caused him to end up in this marriage that would have been rightfully his brother’s - and he knows Richard would’ve adjusted better, always so dedicated to his role as the first prince.

At home Connor had been an afterthought to everyone except his brother. Now, in his marriage, he realises his situation has not changed.

He hasn’t gained an adoring husband - he’s nothing more than a guest here.

He feels the push of tears begin anew, and though he tries to swallow it down, his body begins to tremble. He covers his face and cries quietly, heartbroken for himself.

Eventually Connor pulls himself together. He cleans himself up, splashing water from the basin on his tear-stained face, and straightens his clothes and his crown. He finishes the unpacking, putting things where he likes them, not where his servants think they belong.

In his drawer, locked with a heavy key, he stashes the herbs and medicines that keep his body under strict control, keep his flat chest from budding and prevent the coming of blood.

Once he feels settled, he leaves his rooms, in search of his husband.

”The king is busy,” he is told by a man who goes by Markus, and who Connor assumes to be the king’s personal advisor. ”But he has instructed me to tell you to wait in the sitting room, where you will find some food to tide you over until the banquet.”

Disappointed, Connor waits.

Eventually his husband graces him with his presence, but they only exchange a few words before they’re lead into the banquet hall. Connor feels relief when he sees his brother seated at the head table, and when they are seated Connor pulls him into a fierce embrace. The king watches them, face as unreadable as ever, before turning to engage Amanda in polite discourse.

”How is he?” Richard whispers as they lean their heads together to speak without being overheard.

”Not unpleasant,” Connor says after a moment. ”But I do not think he cares much for me.”

Richard gives him a compassionate look and squeezes his hand.

”There are worse things than a polite marriage,” he murmurs. It doesn’t really comfort Connor, but he nods regardless.

He spends most of the evening speaking to Richard, and his mood improves a little as Richard unleashes his sharp tongue and begins to make mockery of the nobility in attendance. They giggle over the displays of wealth, some more crass than others, and make petty judgements and discuss unfounded gossip they’ve heard. The wine drives away the sorrow, and Connor begins to relax.

At some point, while laughing at Richard’s joke, Connor feels eyes on him, and he turns to see the king watching him. Connor reins his grin into a more princely smile, feeling a heat bloom on his cheeks. There’s something about the king’s expression that makes his stomach tighten.

“He is very... kingly, isn’t he?” Richard says, his tone teasing.

”Oh, quiet,” Connor says, embarrassed.

”Not quite the strapping adonis most people tend to dream of, but he seems to please your eyes well enough.”

”Richard!” Connor hisses, loud enough that Amanda clears her throat to get their attention, glaring at them.

Connor and Richard glance at each other, and fall into stifled laughter.

When the wedding dance is announced, Connor nearly freezes with terror. He hates performing, hates being on display, and now he has to touch and be touched by his husband, the man who seems to find him about as interesting as an ant.

He lets the king lead him to the floor, and looks down at his feet as they settle into positions, the king’s large hand taking Connor’s, the other coming to rest on Connor’s hip. The music begins to flow from the alcove high up where the musicians are, and they begin to move, a slow dance that is meant for lovers. Connor feels the now-familiar lump in his throat.

The king lets go of his hip, and Connor feels two fingers press against his chin, dipping his head up. The king gazes down at him, a friendly look in his eyes.

”No need to be afraid of me, little prince,” he says quietly, and then he pulls Connor close, until Connor’s chest brushes against his, his breath suddenly short.

Connor places a hand on his husband’s broad chest and gives him a tentative smile. Together they sway, Connor held fast in his husband’s arms, and he closes his eyes and lets himself hope.

After the dance the banquet only picks up. Connor tries to make himself enjoy the festivities, and the king holds his hand through the evening, occasionally leaning close to murmur remarks about their guests. Something in Connor eases a little. Perhaps they can be friends, if nothing else.

But the king keeps drinking, and Connor grows worried. There’s something almost desperate about the way the man demands for his cup to be filled. And the more intoxicated he becomes the more morose he seems, until, with a surprisingly steady bow he announces that he is retiring. He does not mention Connor in his little speech, but Connor shares Richard’s alarmed look and says a hasty and painful goodbye to his brother.

”We will write, and I will try to come visit,” Richard reassures him, before Connor hurries after his husband.

He catches up when the king is about to enter his rooms, and Connor slips in through the door before it slams closed. The king turns to look at him, surprise turning into a frown.

”You shouldn’t be here,” he grouses, slumping down on his bed. Connor hesitates, and then decides to be brave, for once. He folds down to his knees between the king’s parted thighs.

”We are to consummate our marriage, sir” he says, forcing the words out. He’s trembling, but he knows his duties. With shaking hands he begins to undo the king’s boots, pulling them off one by one.

”You’re not here to bear me children,” the king slurs. ”I won’t lay with you.”

Connor recoils, hurt. There’s the truth then. Because of Connor’s... condition, the king won’t have him in his bed.

He’s angry and humiliated, his body hot with it. He’s always been reckless when he’s angry.  
He puts his hands on the king’s belt and begins to undo it, fumbling the heavy silver buckle open. He manages to pull the leather away and get his hands on the king’s flies when strong hands grip his wrists.

”Enough,” the king growls, standing up and pulling Connor up to his feet easily, despite his drunken state.

”I’m your husband, sir,” Connor says obstinately. He doesn’t know if he’s more scared or angry now, but he wants the king to pay attention to him for more than one fleeting moment.

”I’m not that kind of man,” the king says, and Connor steps away in confusion.

”Sir?”

The king sighs, dragging his hand across his face.

”You’re my husband. Call me by my name.”

Connor hesitates. ”...Henry?”

The king snorts, tipping his head back as though he’s asking the Gods for mercy.

”King Henry was my father,” he finally says. ”You may call me Hank - if you dare.”

”Hank,” Connor murmurs.

”Now go to your rooms,” Hank says. ”I won’t be forcing myself on you.”

Connor flinches.

”That’s- I want to-” he stutters, angry with his floundering thoughts. ”I _want_ to consummate*,” he says stubbornly.

Hank lets out a sound that could be a laugh.

”Your mother certainly has you trained well,” he says, tone on this side of cruel. It’s a new side of him, and it makes Connor recoil. The king doesn’t seem to notice.

”I won’t take advantage of you, and I don’t expect you to want to be a bed-warmer for an old man. Now go to bed.”

Connor stares at him, trying to make sense of the situation. But Hank is drunk, and Connor doesn’t even know what he himself wants, except to be _wanted_ , and clearly that’s not how it’s going to be.

”Yes, si-. Yes,” he says, and with movements that feel stiff and stilted he walks through the door to his room.

As he shuts the door behind him he hears something shatter against the wall in Hank’s room.

In the morning Connor finds himself alone at breakfast, the large, empty room heated by a crackling fireplace.

”Where is my husband?” He asks Kara, who looks at him surprised.

”He has travelled to the sea for negotiations. Did he not inform you? It is the reason the wedding was so hurried - to improve the kingdom’s political stability.”

Connor swallows around a piece of apple that feels like it’s stuck in his throat.

”He forgot to mention it,” Connor says quietly. ”How long will he be gone?”

”A week, your highness.”

Connor sinks into his chair, reeling. This is not what he had imagined. Even during his most grounded moments he’d never thought he’d end up purchased for quick political gain, and then left to gather dust.

”Could you ask for a horse to be saddled for me,” he says, and gets up, heading up to change and ignoring the surprised look on Kara’s face.

Riding becomes quickly one of his rare escapes for the days to come. He rides his horse a little harder than the poor creature deserves, galloping on smooth grassy heaths until the wind leaves him breathless. It’s the only thing he knows here, the familiar rhythm of the horse’s movements under him, the scent of grass and horse hair. It reminds him of Richard, of their rides together back at home, when they would spend hours competing against each other on horseback.

On one of his rides he comes across a stray dog, large and lumbering like a bear. Connor has never seen one like it before, but it seems docile enough, and affectionate under its matted fur. Connor dismounts to talk to it, petting it once he deems it safe.

When he remounts to head back home, the dog begins to follow him. When Connor stops, the dog stops too, looking at him and wagging its tail.

”Lonely, too?” Connor asks it, and the dog cocks its head at him.

”Alright,” Connor folds, and tosses the dog a piece of a carrot that it crunches down happily. ”Not like there’s anyone to chastise me for collecting strays.”

He writes to Richard, at length, and to his mother, more conservatively. He has been left with some duties by the king, mostly tasks that anyone with half a brain could do - signing papers the king has already approved, listening to reports from the guards and the servants, approving kitchen orders and other deliveries. It’s insulting in its condescension.

Mostly Connor spends his days reading - Hank does have an admirable library, far more varied in topics than the one Amanda kept. Kara often keeps his company, and he’s learned that she enjoys reading as much as he does, and they often share their thoughts about the books they have read.

Sometimes Connor allows himself to think he has a friend in Kara, until he remembers her place, that she cannot afford to lose her place here.

He realises how lonely he is, the few friends he had back home reluctant to come visit so soon after the wedding, clinging to etiquette that Connor hates.

Still, he has a dog now, and it seems quite attached to him.

Connor is reading a book on warriors from far-away lands, and looking at an inked illustration while the stray dog sleeps by the fire he has an idea.

”Sumo,” he calls towards the dog, who doesn’t move. A few more repeats the dog opens its large brown eyes and looks at him, tail flopping from side to side lazily.

”Sumo, here,” he coos, patting his thigh, and the dog gets up slowly, shakes himself, and then moves to slump down on the floor at Connor’s feet.

After that they are inseparable.

When the day that his husband is supposed to return home arrives, Connor has made up his mind. He has his dreams, but he won’t subject himself to the humiliation of throwing himself at a man who doesn’t want him. He saddles his horse (all on his own, to the disapproval of his guards and the stable master) - a dappled grey gelding, sturdy and eager to run, one that’s become his favourite -, packs up dried meat for Sumo, and heads out for a long ride in the woods.

They don’t return until the sun is low and casting copper rays through the trees.

Kara runs up to meet him.

”Oh, your highness, his majesty has been waiting,” she says, tone a little frantic. ”You must get changed quickly and welcome him-”

”I’m sure the king understands that I am a busy man,” Connor smiles at her beatifically. ”Tell him I will see him at supper.”

He takes his time. He has a bath prepared, washing off the dirt and grime off his skin. He brushes Sumo and ties a rather stylish handkerchief around his neck, which Sumo then tries to eat before submitting to his fate. By the time Connor has himself dressed and groomed the sun has set, and he knows he’s late for supper.

Still, he doesn’t hurry. One thing his mother had drilled into him is that a prince does not hurry. He brings Sumo with him and descends down stairs and enters the dining room.

The king sits up as he enters, and then rises to his feet with a polite bow of his head.

”My prince,” he says, waiting for Connor to sit down before returning to his seat.

”Welcome home, your majesty,” Connor says pleasantly. ”Your hasty departure was a bit of a surprise, but as you can see I’ve made myself a friend.” He gestures to Sumo, who sits down at his side, licking his jowls.

”I see,” Hank says, watching Sumo with wary eyes before turning to Connor.

”I apologise for... not telling you beforehand,” he says, a clumsy apology. Connor gives a smile deceptive in its serenity, a habit learned from his mother.

”No need to concern yourself with it,” he says, and recognises the same tone his mother would often use on them - the one that always meant matters had been forgiven, but not forgotten. ”After all, it’s good to know one’s place.”

Hank stares at him, face growing red. ”That’s hardly what I-” he begins, and then snaps his mouth shut when the servants enter with trays of food. Connor lets himself be served, and without another glance at his husband he eats.

He’s aware of Hank’s gaze upon him, but he resists the urge to meet it. They eat in silence, but there’s a heavy tension between them, the king fidgeting, occasionally lowering his utensils as though about to speak, and then picking them up again.

When their dinner is cleared away Connor stands up, and Hank jumps to his feet.

“Will you join me for a drink?” Hank asks, standing stiffly by his chair. “I can tell you about the negotiations. They were very fruitful - much thanks to you. Your kind and educated reputation has carried far.”

There’s an uncharacteristically uncertain look on his face, and Connor wants to give in. But he’s been burnt once, and he wants to shield himself.

“Thank you, but it’s been a long day. I think I’ll retire to my rooms,” he says, giving Hank a polite smile.

“Of course,” Hank says, though Connor thinks he hears a hint of regret in his tone. Enough to make him reconsider.

“Perhaps we could talk in your quarters?”

The king’s eyes widen, and he hurries to Connor’s side.

“Of course, my prince,” he says, and offers Connor his arm.

They settle in plush chairs in the king’s rooms, the fire crackling merrily next to them, Sumo resting at their feet. Connor listens as Hank talks, trying to pay attention to the words and not just the pleasantly soothing rumble of his voice.

“And how are you settling in, little prince?”

Connor sits up straight, looking away from his husband’s face.

“I am fine. I enjoy the riding, and there’s enough work to keep me busy. I’ve been utilising the library - I must compliment you on your collection.”

Hank smiles, nodding with approval, a hint of pride on his face. “Anything you need, just tell me and I will arrange for it.”

Connor feels warmth pool in his belly, and he smiles coyly.

“Thank you, your majesty,” he says softly, reaching to touch Hank’s hand.

Hank jolts, withdrawing his hand and averting his gaze, and Connor remembers the ache from their wedding night.

He stands up, and then king looks at him with alarm.

“I will see you in the morning,” Connor says, tone formal, and offers a bow. Hank stands up to see him cross the room the door separating their rooms.

When Connor casts one last glance at him, there is a clear look of indecision on the king’s features. For a moment he thinks Hank is about to speak, but then the king nods his head in acknowledgement, and Connor lets the door fall shut between them.

From then on Connor senses a change in the king. Hank is cautious around him - seems to gauge Connor’s moods and weigh his own words carefully, always finding the most polite and considerate way to convey his words. It’s amusing and infuriating at the same time. It creates a distance between them, one that Connor is sick of.

He’d been subjected to it from his mother his whole life, and now he is suffering from the same polite disinterest from own husband. In return Connor responds with a sharper tongue than is strictly necessary, his behaviour towards Hank chilled, always coloured by hurt. It’s one of the few satisfying reactions he can draw out of Hank - the slight flinch when Connor’s words sink in like pin-pricks.

They dance around each other, disappointed in each other and themselves. There are times when Connor reaches out, his temper thawed and his desire to not be so lonely winning over his pride and wounded emotions. And Hank smiles at him, relief budding on his face, though he’s painfully awkward still.

But a touch from Connor, a risque suggestion, and he withdraws, and Connor’s wounds are torn open anew.

He’s not good enough. Time won’t change that - his mother was perpetually let down by him, and the king won’t have him. His husband rejects him, again and again, and Connor grits his teeth and muffles screams into his pillow.

It’s easy to harden himself to it. To let the bitterness take over. He knows he’s resembling Amanda more by the day, the dignified coldness he directs at his husband. He sees the hurt confusion on Hank’s face, and though it feels like an animal clawing at his guts, it also gives him a savage feeling of having won. It feels a lot like revenge.

He writes to Richard often, and Richard writes back. He doesn’t tell the truth about the state of his marriage - he can’t bear to put his sorrow into words.

There are times when he’ll look up and see Hank watching him with a vulnerable look on his face, and then Connor wants to go to him. He wants to be held in those strong arms, wants to feel his king’s broad body against his, to feel safe and loved and wanted. He wants them to be partners, to rule together as they’re supposed to.

In the end it’s Richard who broaches the subject of Connor’s marriage in letter, and slices into Connor a wound so deep it runs to the bone.

_There are rumours about the king entertaining mistresses. Mother is furious, but I’ve told her to not believe the poisonous tongues. People will gossip to make their own lives more interesting. Yet I worry, brother. You haven’t spoken much about the king - I hope things aren’t truly as dire as the rumours claim._

Connor reads those few lines again and again, a terrible coldness coming over him. His breaths come in shallow, his chest aching too much for him to truly breathe. It can’t be true - he would know, surely, if the king was bringing women into the castle.

But he knows nothing about what goes on when Hank leaves for his little trips.

Despite everything, it feels like a killing blow. Whatever hope Connor may have had is snuffed out like a fluttering flame. A heavy weight settles in his gut, metallic and cold. He carries it around in a daze, and when he sees Hank he holds his tongue. Ugly words grow inside him, building a nest and filling every inch of him with venom. Sometimes drops of it spill out, and the king flinches at the coldness hidden in Connor’s words.

How dare he, Connor wonders. How dare he act hurt when Connor is the one whose heart has been shattered.

Hank gives him a wide berth. He’s polite and kind, and scarce. The few occasions they still dine together he keeps looking at Connor with an unreadable expression that Connor ignores.

It’s easy to pretend that he barely notices his husband - Hank makes it easy. He travels a lot, weekly little trips that keep his already busy schedule completely swamped. It’s obvious the king tries to be away from home as much as possible.

Away from Connor.

“Perhaps it’s time for the prince to pay us a visit,” Hank says one evening over a quiet supper affair.

Connor looks up at him, an eyebrow cocked.

“The prince… you mean my brother?”

The king nods and holds Connor’s gaze.

“I would like for you to have other company besides Sumo,” he says, a shade of discomfort in his tone, though he tries to hide it.

Connor’s temper flares.

“If this is about your guilt over the company _you_ have been indulging in-”

“Pardon?” Hank asks sharply, setting his knife down.

“Never mind,” Connor mutters. It’s not worth it. He’d learned as much from his mother.

Hank seems to disagree though.

“No, I do mind. What is it I am supposed to be guilty about? What have I done to deserve your wrath-” He stutters to a stop. Then, after a drawn breath - “But marry you?”

Connor heart constricts.

“At least have the decency to call it for what it is,” he spits, pushing himself out of his chair. “This isn’t a marriage, no husband should recoil from his spouse on their wedding bed. You made a bargain with my mother for the advantage of my diplomatic presence, and that’s as far as your investment goes.” As soon as he says it, the hard realisation sets in.

“An investment. That’s all I am to you,” he says softly, the words choking him.

Hank stares at him, those bright blue eyes wide, his face pale. Connor wants him to react. Just for once he wants for Hank to show that he cares, that Connor is more to him than an inconvenient guest. Wants Hank to rail against him and his anger, defend himself and fight for the husband that he’s losing more day by day.

But he simply sits, quiet and ashen, and then he turns his face away.

“You do me a great disservice by accusing me in such a way,” Hank says, voice quiet.

Connor lets out a soft laugh. It rings hollow in the room.

“I won’t humiliate myself by pretending this is more than it is - and I certainly won’t compete with mistresses.”

That gets a reaction from Hank. He stares at Connor, brows deepened into a frown, his posture tense.

“I’ve never-” he starts, his voice thin. He clears his throat and continues, tone hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my prince, but you’d do well not to listen to idle gossip.”

The harshness of his tone nearly makes Connor falter. But how many times had he listened behind locked doors to his father’s excuses and lies?

“And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t patronise me,” Connor says coldly, and marches to the door.

“We are not done here!” the king barks, and Connor swallows thickly, pausing to draw in a breath.

“We were done when you accredited my desire for you to my mother’s bidding,” he says quietly. He doesn’t stay to hear his husband’s answer.

He’s supposed to be with guards.

He knows the woods like the back of his hand, criss-crossing and goading his horse on until the guards fall behind and finally lose him in the lush foliage. Connor laughs when he hears the faint echoes of their frantic yells and and swears and stops his steed, allowing Sumo to catch up with them, the big dog galloping through dense bushes with his tongue lolling out.

“Good boy!” Connor praises him, and sets off towards the lake at a leisurely trot.

The confrontation has almost evaporated from his mind. He loses himself in the movements of his horse, the scent of the forest, the sound of hooves thundering on soft dirt and leaves. He goes to the little inlet that is shielded from views by tall reeds, and dismounts to let his horse rest. Sumo sits down by his side, panting happily, and Connor entertains himself by throwing pebbles into the still waters. Every splash makes Sumo perk up, sends him sniffing at the water’s edge, making Connor laugh.

He doesn’t notice the sky grow dark with storm clouds until the wind picks up, making the reeds hiss menacingly and the water turn frothy and unruly. He’s far away from the castle, and he debates seeking shelter in the woods. He could huddle up in the thick foliage, Sumo and his horse enough to keep him warm.

In the end the challenge of trying to beat nature itself wins out, and with a grin Connor mounts his horse and coaxes his gelding into a gallop, Sumo equally eager to run.

They race the storm with Sumo. Connor feels the occasional sprinkling of water on his skin and pushes his horse harder, and they fly over the fields rippling in the wind, the speed exhilarating.

It’s not as dramatic as a lighting bolt or a startled bird bursting to flight.

It’s a ditch in the ground, and the unsteady hoof of an already-exhausted horse, and before Connor knows what has happened the ground is rushing up to meet him, and then the world is swallowed by darkness.

Usually Hank finds it amusing, how Connor runs circles around the royal guard.

Tonight his temper is short, and when the first gusts of wind begin to blow it’s snuffed out entirely. Not soon after the skies open up, a torrent of rain crashing down, and Hank feels a dread in his heart.

He mounts his own horse and sets off, sending another group to scout the woods while he heads towards what he has been told is Connor’s favourite heath. The sky is dark, pouring rain over the rolling fields, soaking Hank to the skin.

When he sees the dappled gelding, riderless and with its reins tangled around a shrub, his heart sinks.

Hank barks orders into the wind and rain, but it’s nearly impossible to see far here, the storm obscuring the view.

Hank calls for his men to dismount, terrified of trampling Connor in the tall grass. They push against the weather, Hank’s chest tight with despair. There has to be a way to fix things, but only if he hasn’t lost Connor for good.

He thinks it’s the wind, at first. A mournful howl echoing over the fields, ululations that wane in the wind. And then he spots the lump of brown and white mass amongst the wet, waving greenery, and realises it’s a dog.

“Sumo!” He screams, but the wind snatches his words away. He abandons his horse and runs towards the dog, boots slipping in the long, wet grass. Soon he sees the dark shape on the ground in front of Sumo, and his heart drops to his stomach.

“Connor!” He calls, falling to his knees by his husband. He touches Connor gently, turning him over with fear gripping him.

_Let him be alright, please, lord._

There’s a terrible gash on Connor’s temple, blood smeared on the side of his face. He’s pale, lips blue, and completely limp as Hank drags him into his lap.

He touches Connor’s neck and feels the sluggish throb of a weakening heart.

“Oh, Connor,” he breathes, and carefully gathers his prince in his arms. A gust of wind nearly knocks him off his feet when he staggers up, but then his men are on him, trying to take Connor until Hank snaps at them to keep their hands to themselves. He sends a few of his men to fetch a carriage - he doesn’t want to risk putting Connor on a horse, unconscious.

With one of the guards leading, the other at Hank’s back, they’re shielded from the wind at least slightly. He cradles Connor to his chest, holding him steadily and as gently as he can. They begin to make their way towards the castle, hoping to meet the carriage half-way. Connor doesn’t stir, doesn’t let so much as a whimper, and Hank thinks he might be too late.

Sumo follows him, tail low, his soft whines trailing into the windy heath.


	2. Chapter 2

Connor’s head is pounding.

He’s cold, the kind of cold that goes deep into your bones and makes home there. He shivers, burrowing deeper into the thick blankets weighing him down.

He opens his eyes and flinches against the flickering light from the candles and the fireplace. Rain patters against the hatched windows, and it’s impossible to tell the time by the leaded sky outside.

There’s a mop of grey hair on his bed, he realises. He assumes it’s attached to his husband’s head, but it’s hard to tell, his vision swimming as he tries to think. No, there is certainly a bulk that must be the king, slumped over in a chair, his arms folded on the edge of Connor’s bed, pillowing his head.

Without thinking, Connor lifts his hand weakly and cards his fingers through Hank’s hair. It’s a little matted, tangled.

Hank jolts up, staring at him with wide eyes. There’s a crease on his temple from where he’d rested it over his sleeve.

Connor blinks at him blearily, trying to remember what happened. Then the king lets out a soft, weak sound, his hand jerking towards Connor before he seems to catch himself. He sits up, dragging a hand across his face.

“How do you feel?” Hank croaks, casting Connor a look so worried Connor’s chest aches.

“Terrible,” Connor admits, his own voice equally raw. “What happened?”

Hank lets out a breath that looks like it could be relief at the sound of Connor’s voice. “You fell off your horse and hit your head,” he says gently. “You were lost to the storm for hours until we found you - you’ve been ravaged by a fever for two days.”

“I don’t remember,” Connor says quietly, feeling lost. He remembers their argument over dinner, and then nothing.

“You scared me to death,” Hank says, his voice barely a whisper. Connor looks at him, surprised.

There’s a haunted look in Hank’s eyes, his face pale and tired. The yellow fireglow makes him look older than his years, the lines of his face prominent. Connor feels an unexpected bout of guilt.

“I didn’t intend to,” he says, tracing the embroidered pattern on the thick blanket covering him. It’s hard to look at Hank in the eye.

For a moment his husband merely watches him with a look Connor has never seen on him before. It’s almost contemplative, like Hank is trying to decide something.

Finally, he says, “would you like to go back home?”

It’s everything Connor thought he wanted, and instead it makes his body turn hot with an emotion he can’t name, his eyes prickling with welling tears.

He wants to go home. He wants to be with his brother.

He doesn’t want for his husband to send him away. He wants Hank to fight to keep him. He wants Hank to want him here. He doesn’t want it to be easy for Hank to give him up like this.

He feels a tear roll down his cheek, but before he can furiously wipe it away Hank breathes out his name.

Connor looks up, and there is a stricken look on Hank’s face.

“I’m a fool,” Hank whispers, and then he curls a large, warm hand around Connor’s jaw and leans over him, his mouth brushing against Connor’s, his beard bristling over Connor’s heated skin.

The kiss is chaste and tender and fleeting. Hank withdraws, but remains close, and he clasps Connor’s hand in his. Connor stares at him, trying to understand what has just happened.

“We should talk,” Hank says, clutching Connor’s pale hand between his palms. “But now I know we have time. Rest, now. I won’t go anywhere.”

Connor wants to argue, but there is a weariness that still clings to his whole being, and before he knows it sleep has taken him.

The next time he wakes up his head feels clearer. His stomach is painfully empty, and his mouth is dry. His joints ache and he feels heavy in a way one only does after sleeping too much, but he no longer feels the chills that go to the core.

He hears someone slap a book shut, and he turns his head to look towards his desk, expecting to see Hank. He feels his face break into a grin, and he pushes himself up weakly as Richard stands up and hurries to the bed, wrapping his arms around Connor’s shoulders.

“You moron,” Richard admonishes, but his tone is gentle. “When I received the word my idiotic little brother had gotten himself thrown off a horse and then caught ill, I expected the worst.”

“You know I’m more resilient than that,” Connor says, and then hacks out a cough for good measure.

“I do not,” Richard says, one eyebrow raised. Connor shoves him lightly, and Richard smiles, something like relief in his expression.

“I’m happy you’re here,” Connor admits. “I’ve missed you.”

Richard lays a hand on his leg, giving it a squeeze. “And I you. Mother has been a little impossible since you left.”

Connor startles. “Is… she here?”

“No, I told her if you were out of it it would make little sense for her to waste time sitting here doing nothing.”

“Ever the pragmatist,” Connor teases him, and then shifts on the bed, making room for Richard to climb in with him. They haven’t done this since they were children, the responsibilities of adulthood and their pedigree preventing them from seeking such innocent comforts. But now Richard wraps his arm around Connor’s shoulders and tucks him to his side, and Connor rests his head on Richard’s breast, listening to the steady, comforting heart-beat of his twin.

They sit like that in comfortable silence, taking pleasure in just being close, side to side, like they were when they were little. How many nights did they spend reading in secret in their bedrooms, giggling at silly, private jokes. How they used to be inseparable then, how they knew each other’s thoughts and needs, like one person occupying two bodies.

Connor curls against his brother, a heavy lump in his throat. How much simpler things had been, then. And then they’d had to leave their games behind, and Richard had began to prepare for the eventuality of his coronation, and Connor had begun to battle his body and his own fate. Richard had been there for him through it all, through his first blood, which had left Connor distraught and despairing, to the trials with the court doctors until finally Connor had been allowed to become the young man he was always meant to be.

They’d always known they’d end up separated eventually, but they had both pretended that day would never come.

“Will you read to me?” Connor says, tone imploring. Richard hums and folds open the book he’s been holding, and begins to read.

Connor lets his low, soothing voice lull him, clinging to the edge of wakefulness like he clings to the edge of Richard’s lace-cuffed sleeve.

“ _All our discontents about what we want appeared to me to spring from the want of thankfulness for what we have..._

Connor is dozing, not quite asleep, not quite awake as he listens to his Richard’s steady voice, though he’s lost track of the story by now.

“ _Immediately it followed: Why has God done this to me? What have I done to be thus used?_ ”

Richard pauses. He sets the book down on his lap, and for a moment they’re both silent.

“Are you happy here?” He asks finally.

Connor stirs, lifting his head and turning his face to look at his brother.

“Happiness is such a complicated concept,” he says wearily. “Are you happy at home?”

Richard wrinkles his nose.

“He’s good to you though, isn’t he?”

“Mistresses aside,” Connor says dryly. “We haven’t… Things are odd between us, currently. In fact, I haven’t seen him since last night, and before that we-” he hesitates, wondering how much to tell. “We had a fight. About.. his failings as a husband,” he murmurs.

Hank had said he wouldn’t leave Connor’s side, yet he hadn’t been there when he’d woken up again. Perhaps to give them privacy, which Connor can’t begrudge him.

“I believe we did a change of guard,” Richard says, sounding amused. “He was here when I arrived, at your bedside. He only left because I persuaded him - he looked an awful mess, I doubt he had showered in days.”

“Oh,” Connor says, unsure of how to feel. “He seemed quite upset that I’d fallen ill, but-” he breaks off, the tips of his fingers massaging at Richard’s sleeve.

Gently Richard plucks the garment free and covers Connor’s nervous hand with his.

“But what, little brother?” He coaxes gently.

“He offered to send me home,” Connor says thickly, that familiar well of emotions suffocating him again.

“To visit?”

“No, I think he meant- For good,” Connor says, and humiliated to realise just how close he is to crying.

“And wouldn’t that make you happy?” Richard asks, confused.

“I- I don’t know. I wanted him to… I want me to matter too much for him to send me away,” he sniffles.

“Oh, brother-dearest,” Richard sighs, squeezing Connor lightly. “You never stop hoping, do you?”

“But I _did_. I gave up and told myself a marriage of love wasn’t for me, but I-”

Richard is right. He’d never truly stopped hoping. Hoping that Hank would one day open his eyes and see him and love him, that he’d finally find his place in the world, that he could stop feeling like an afterthought, someone of little significance.

“He kept vigil at your bedside,” Richard reminds him. “Perhaps it’s not all for nought.”

Connor thinks of the tender kiss they’d shared, and wonders if he has it in him to brace for one more disappointment, one more hurt.

There’s a knock on the door, and then the king steps inside, a few servants trailing in after him. Connor and Richard exchange looks - what king knocks in his own castle?

“You should eat, and then you may have a bath,” Hank say, his tone kind but firm in a way that makes it clear this is not a suggestion. Richard stretches his back and climbs off the bed, withdrawing towards the door. Connor doesn’t miss the look he gives Hank, though he’s not entirely sure what it means.

“I think it’s time for me to retire,” Richard says, his hands folded neatly in front of him. “I’ve been up for quite some time, and the journey was exhausting.”

He turns, and nearly runs into one of the king’s guards standing in watch by the door, a tall, strong man named Luther.

Connor watches the blush spread on his brother’s cheeks as he murmurs his flustered apologies.

 _Pot and kettle_ , he thinks.

Hank ushers the help him up, and then sits at the foot of Connor’s bed to watch him eat.

It’s a little unnerving.

“Have you eaten?” Connor asks politely, tasting a spoonful of warm, spicy soup.

“Your brother let me take some time to get myself cleaned up and fed,” Hank nods. He can’t seem to be able to take his eyes off Connor, watching his every move.

The silence stretches between them, heavy and tense. Connor knows there are things between them that must be discussed, but he’d rather put it off as much as he can.

“I’ve never once kept a mistress,” Hank says suddenly. Now he does turn his gaze away, as though he can’t bring himself to look Connor in the eye. “It’s not who I am, I’m-” He pauses, and draws a deep breath. “You are my wedded husband, and to you I am loyal.”

Connor holds his breath. He wants to believe Hank so badly, wants it to be true with his whole body.

“I told you not to listen to rumours,” Hank adds, his tone frustrated. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

Connor sets his bowl down and frowns at it, trying to sort his thoughts. He feels blindsided.

“I didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t think me complaining about it would have changed a thing-”

“You didn’t even entertain the idea that I could be faithful to you?” Hank asks, and there’s an edge of hurt in his tone that catches Connor off guard.

“You never- You were quite clear about not wanting me in the capacity of a husband, so no, I did not consider that you would be honouring our vows!”

Hank opens his mouth, and then closes it, sitting there with a hunched look.

“Perhaps it would have been wise after all for us to have gotten to know each other before the wedding,” he huffs. Connor gives him a joyless smile.

“What do you want?” Hank asks.

 _A partner. A friend. A protector and someone to protect. Someone who desires me, someone who makes me feel good_.

“Love,” he says softly, meeting Hank’s blue gaze.

“From an old man?”

“From a _good_ man,” Connor chokes out.

“I’m not-”

“You are!” Connor cries, pushing his tray to the side and moving closer to Hank on the bed. “You care for you kingdom, I’ve seen how much you do. You’ve not treated me with cruelty even though I have done my best to punish you for something you didn’t do, and you didn’t reject my mother’s proposal even when you found out I’m-” he falters, unsure of what to say.

Hank seems to understand though.

“I have no need for a queen. When my time ends my kingdom will be joined with yours and flourish all the better for it under your wealth.” He reaches to brush his hands across Connor’s cheekbone. “I thought another man would understand my needs as a king better. I didn’t consider the issue of, ah.” He pauses, clearly weighing his words. “You are a very, very attractive young man,” Hank says then, his cheeks growing a little ruddy. “But I am an old man, and hardly suitable for-”

Connor has always lived according to caution and manners and etiquette, and it has brought him little good. So, giving in to recklessness, he throws his arms around the king and presses their mouths together, inexperienced, lacking finesse and subtlety.

Hank goes still against him, and then carefully, as though he’s frightened he might spook Connor, he wraps an arm around Connor’s waist, holding him in an embrace.

Connor pulls away, only so he can look at Hank in the eye.

“Tell me you want me,” he whispers. “Tell me you want to touch me and feel me beneath you, that you want to take your pleasure from me and know me like a husband should.”

“Gods, Connor,” Hank groans, his eyes falling closed. He’s so handsome Connor aches for him, aches to have that strength and power untamed in his bed.

“Who wouldn’t want you,” Hank says eventually, his voice gone a little gravelly. It sends shivers down Connor’s spine. “You’re young and smart and beautiful, and you carry your crown with dignity many of us can only dream of…”

Connor flushes with pleasure. He leans close to Hank, nudging his nose at Hank’s temple.

“Then why refuse consummation?”

Hank jerks, but doesn’t recoil. He draws back and cups Connor’s cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb over the soft skin.

“I did not think you were acting on your own desires,” he admits. “I feared your mother was trying to trick a child out of us, and I can’t-”

Connor does recoil. He withdraws from Hank’s arms, despite the yearning way Hank’s hand trails across his linen-clothed body.

“I can’t- I can’t bear children,” he chokes out. “I’m not a woman, and out of respect for me they made sure I cannot-”

Hank touches his wrist gently.

“I didn’t know that,” he says softly. “And I apologise for thinking so lowly of your family, but it’s simply a risk I couldn’t afford. And it seemed to me a political scheme was more likely than being wanted by someone like you.”

Connor breathes in deep, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, Hank is gazing at him with worry.

“I feared you didn’t want me because I can’t give you an heir. You feared I wanted you because you thought I could,” Connor says, giving Hank a lopsided smile.

“I wouldn’t push someone away for being barren,” Hank frowns.

“You rejected Richard for his injured leg,” Connor says, accusation heavy in his voice. He realises he’s never quite forgiven Hank for slighting his brother so.

Hank gives him a long, regarding look.

“I did not reject your brother. I asked for his hand, first, for no other reason but that it was customary to wed the oldest. Your mother refused, citing your brother’s injury.”

Connor stares at him, slumping down on the bed. He feels like he’s hit his head - again.

“I’ve been such a fool,” he wails, gripping Hank’s forearms. “Can you forgive me?”

“Fault lies in me too. I didn’t trust you,” Hank admits. “And I kept you in the dark and didn’t bring you on my travels, and now here we are.”

“Do you trust me now?” Connor asks, voice shaky.

Hank’s eyes are so blue, so earnest. Connor thinks he could drown in them.

“With all my heart,” Hank says, and Connor can see the truth in his eyes.

Things between them enter an state of suspension. Like a lake frozen in the winter, they can’t seem to move forward, both of them too cautious to push matters further.

Richard’s visit is a needed distraction. They go on walks, Connor proudly showing the castle grounds. They’re not lush and blooming like the gardens at home, but they are majestic in their curated wildness. Oaktrees and hungry vines, moss and lichens in deep dark colours of green. The occasional weeping willow softens the landscape, along with august fountains that flow with crystal clear waters.

Luther from the king’s guard keeps them company, always a respectful distance behind. Connor can see Richard casting curious glances in his direction. He has seen them talk, at times, his brother keenly seeking Luther’s company.

Connor had at first decided to not let Richard know the truth about the marriage arrangement, but the more time he spends with Richard here, away from their mother’s stifling influence, the more his brother reminds him of the boy he was when they were little. Connor owes him honesty.

“Do you think loyalty to family should be unconditional?” Connor asks one day. They’re strolling through the garden with Sumo. The ground is soft and fragrant after rain, the air warm and a little humid. Connor is beginning to think of this place as home, has begun to look at the gardens with a dedicated fondness and pride.

Richard throws a stick, and then stops to watch Sumo bound after it.

“Loyalty to the family tree,” Richard says decisively. “Though I’d go to the ends of the world for you. What’s this about, little brother?”

Connor hesitates. Sumo returns, tail wagging, slobbering over his stick. He drops it at Connor’s feet hopefully, and Connor throws it before sitting down on a bench by a small fountain.

“I spoke to H- the king,” he says, patting the seat next to him. Richard sits down, his expression puzzled.

Connor sighs. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you, but the king didn’t choose me because of your leg-”

Richard begins laughing, and Connor stares at him, dumbfounded.

“Oh, Connor, I know. Amanda’s the one who was offended by the idea of marrying off a crippled son.”

“You knew? And you don’t mind?”

Richard sighs. “What does it matter if I mind? I’m still the heir, ashamed as it might make her.”

“You don’t have to be,” Connor says insistently. “You could-”

“Abdicate?” Richard laughs. “ _Connor_ ,” he says, as though he’s admonishing a child.

“What are we doing this for? I was willing to give up my dreams for her, and you-”

“I have a responsibility to our kingdom and our people,” Richard says, tone suddenly harsh. “You can’t understand because it was never instilled into you the way it was into me, but I love our people more than I love myself.”

Connor looks away, his chest feeling tight.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, that was unfair of me,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have… It must be hard enough as it is.”

Richard looks towards where Sumo is barking up a tree where a squirrel sits on a low branch. They sit quietly, watching the dog play. Finally Richard lets out a heavy sigh.

“I’ll forgive her, one day. Until I do she’ll still be the Queen, and no more.” He smiles at Connor, his pale eyes sombre.

Connor places his hand over Richard’s and gives him a small smile.

“I’ll always be your brother.”

“And no less,” Richard says, laughing gently.

Richard can’t act as a chaperone forever. Connor hugs him goodbye, already aching.

“We’ll see again soon,” Richard comforts him, reaching to straighten Connor’s crown.

Connor gives him a letter to give to their mother, and his promise to not broach the subject of Richard’s leg with her.

Hank sends Luther with the convoy.

“For security,” he says dismissively, when Richard objects, looking flustered. Hank catches Connor’s eyes and quirks him a conspiratorial smile that Connor can’t help but treasure.

That night it’s just the two of them at dinner again. Connor has lost his appetite and he ends up mostly pushing his food around his plate until it grows cold, the fat on his meat congealing. He’s aware of the looks Hank keeps giving him from across the table, and every time it makes Connor’s stomach flip. Connor wants to say something to address this thing between them. The obstacles have been cleared away - now they just need to stop being cowards, the both of them.

As always, Hank waits for Connor to leave the table first. Always reverent, polite. Correct. Connor wonders what it would take to make him give up the shield of propriety.

They sit together in the library and read, a carefully measured distance between them. One that makes sure they won’t touch by accident - but they could. If one of them gathered enough courage. It’s an awful tease, a temptation Connor wonders if Hank feels as much as he does.

Summer is turning towards autumn when something changes in the king. He becomes moody, withdrawn. He drinks more and more and shuts himself in his quarters. It reminds Connor too much of the past, of the cold wall that had been between them, and it carves a hole in his chest. He doesn’t understand why they are slipping into being strangers again, why Hank is turning him away.

It ends with the sound of shattering glass.

Connor jumps up in his bed, full of worry and anger, his thoughts too sleep-muddled for him to stop and consider his actions. He bursts through the door separating his quarters from the king’s, and nearly trips over his husband.

Hank is sitting on the floor, dressed in nothing but his nightgown, his lips stained red with wine. By the wall are the wine-soaked remains of a crystal carafe, glittering like diamonds in the candle-light.

A guard bursts in from the hallway and Connor waves him away with a sharp look and a barked order. By the way the man glances at the king and then retreats quietly, Connor wonders if this has happened before.

“Hank,” Connor says softly, kneeling down gingerly, avoiding the slivers of glass. He touches Hank’s arm, gently trying to coax some acknowledgement out of him.

The king draws in a ragged breath and covers his eyes with his hand, as though hiding himself from Connor’s gaze.

“Please, talk to me,” Connor begs, one hand curling into the fine tread of Hank’s sleeve. He pulls, forcing Hank to look at him.

Hank watches him with wine-glazed eyes, the blue of them dull and unfocused.

“It’s his birthday,” he says finally, a whisper that seems eerily out of place from a man of his stature.

“Whose?” Connor asks, confused, and takes Hank’s hand in his, trying to encourage him.

“My son’s.”

Connor’s heart falls to his gut, leaving behind a cold, empty place. He swallows down the bile rising up, but nothing can chase away the feeling that something has just shifted irrevocably, that every smallest building block in his marriage, political or personal, has been torn down with little care.

He opens his mouth, but words have abandoned him. He lets go of Hank’s hand and stands up, reaching behind himself for the door latch. He needs to leave, he knows it now. Whatever the consequences, he can’t remain here. Inside a new fire burns - out, get out.

Hank looks up at him. Perhaps he reads something in Connor’s eyes, because he stretches his hand out, crawling to his knees.

“No,” he croaks, and reaches for Connor, like a child reaching towards security.

“Don’t,” Hank breathes. On his knees on the floor, stained with wine, eyes red-rimmed, undignified and stripped of everything, he looks nothing like a king.

“I can’t stay,” Connor says, his voice a soft wail. “Don’t you see, I can’t- I won’t be an excuse, or a shield, and I won’t watch from the side if there is a family you love when you won’t even touch me!”

He tastes salt on his lips. He’s lost count of the times Hank has made him cry, but he swears this will be the last.

“All I _want_ is to touch you,” Hank slurs, his fingers brushing over Connor’s, Hank’s large hand curling to hold Connor’s, pulling like gravity until Connor folds down to his knees on the hard stone floor.

“I was so young, Connor,” Hank says, and cups his palm on Connor’s wet cheek. Connor’s breath hitches, stoppered in his chest by an emotion welling inside him.

“There was a woman… I barely knew her, but I was young and stupid and careless and-” Hank heaves in a breath, and Connor can smell the wine on him, cloying and sweet.

“I did right by her - she had a husband she loved, and they had no children, I had no right to the one thing they wanted. So I let him go, and he’s… somewhere,” Hank says, brushing his thumb over Connor’s cheekbone. “He’s somewhere out there, happy and growing, and you… you’re here,” he murmurs. His gaze falls on Connor’s mouth, and it’s like the moment between the rumbling of thunder and the lighting striking.

One last chance, Connor thinks, and leans forward, until he feels the brush of Hank’s lips against his own.

The sound Hank lets out sounds like something is being ripped from his chest. It wells deep and crawls out of his throat and into Connor’s mouth, only to be swallowed up on Connor’s breath. Hank draws him close, wraps his arms around Connor’s shoulders and kisses him harder, and Connor can taste the wine on his tongue, sharp and tangy, and it sticks to his soul. It tastes like relief.

Connor presses closer until Hank falls back, his legs spread, and Connor climbs into his lap, hungry for more. His hands card through Hank’s hair like he’s wanted to do for months, and it’s just as soft and fine as he’d imagined. He shifts, moving to straddle Hank’s thigh, and rolls his hips down, wanting to show Hank how much he wants.

Hank pulls back, drawing in a heavy breath before resting his brow against Connor’s.

“Not… Not now, I can’t, the wine and the… I can’t,” he chokes, and Connor feels disappointment clench at his heart.

Hank tips his chin up, brushes away the stray curl hanging over Connor’s forehead.

“But you could… you’re welcome to stay the night,” he says softly.

Connor tells himself he’s not being offered scraps. That this is a step forward, not another offence.

He makes sure his husband drinks water, and then helps him up and into the large bed, under the thick covers. Connor joins Hank almost gingerly, his movements small and cautious as he slides into bed, his heart in his throat when he moves towards Hank.

And then Hank turns towards him, onto his side, and takes Connor in his arms, holding him close.

“I’m sorry, my little prince,” Hank murmurs, his breath stirring Connor’s hair.

The sky is beginning to brighten when sleep finally takes Connor.

When Connor wakes up, the room is filled with the clammy light of the dawn, hued in pinks and pale blues. Hank sleeps, his chest rising and falling evenly. He has one arm pinned under Connor, his free hand resting on Connor’s over his stomach.

Connor watches him. Studies his husband, the tired lines of his face, the serious press of his mouth. He knows he can’t leave now. Even if Hank wakes up and changes his mind, Connor’s heart has been caged by him.

He needn’t have worried. Hank wakes up slowly, stirring with a pained groan, but when he opens his eyes he turns towards Connor and smiles, tentative.

“My prince,” he says softly, and kisses him, tender, as though frightened Connor will disappear like a dream.

“My king,” Connor answers, and feels a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

They lie in bed, quiet and still, finding comfort in each other’s company. Only when the rays of the morning sun begin to creep in through the window do they rise, and reluctantly Connor goes to his own rooms to get dressed.

They go for a ride. The guards trail behind them and they talk. They talk about Hank’s child, the son that was named Cole after the man he will grow up believing is his father.

“I have tried sending him - them gifts,” Hank says as they meander along the slow, clear stream in the forest. Connor’s horse hoards leaves from passing branches, and Sumo pads ahead of them, occasionally bursting into gallop to chase after a bird taking flight.

“They don’t want it - she doesn’t want to hurt her husband, and they do fine, they don’t need my help.”

“Have you seen him?” Connor asks gently, feeling the ache in Hank’s words.

“No. But she came to see me once, and told me he has my eyes,” Hank says, voice strained. “He’s smart. Happy. Likes to climb trees. He loves animals.”

Connor thinks of Amanda, and of Richard. Of how he’d dreamt of his own life going, and it nearly being derailed by his mother’s actions.

“You’ve put his happiness before your own,” he says, and reaches between them to touch Hank’s knee. “Whether he knows it or not, you are a good father. You love your son, and you’ve denied yourself his love for the sake of doing right by him. You are a good man, Hank.”

Hank turns to look at him, his eyes wide. He opens his mouth, and then snaps it shut, and reaches for Connor’s hand.

They ride in silence, linked together, the sounds of the forest cocooning them.

They begin to seek each other out. As though making up for lost time they can’t stop touching - holding hands on their walks, spending their evenings with Connor curled up against Hank’s side. At night they sleep in each other’s arms, warm despite the shortening days and the bite of frost as autumn crawls further. Sometimes they touch, timid, tentative touches under the covers, heavy breaths and thudding heart beats, until they reach a line neither of them set, and they draw apart, flustered and confused.

Connor breaks first. A cold, rainy night, and Hank’s hands stroking his skin under cotton, mapping the contours of his back, Connor’s own fingertips dragging through the hairs on Hank’s chest. Hank’s palm slides past the dip of Connor’s spine, to the top curve of his ass, and then jerks away, and Hank begins to roll away.

“No,” Connor says, soft and quick, and grabs Hank’s wrist, drawing it to his belly.

“Please,” Connor whispers, and presses a kiss to Hank’s collar bone.

“My sweet prince,” Hank murmurs, his palm flat on the soft skin of Connor’s abdomen.

“Please,” Connor repeats, more urgently now. He feels something in Hank release, a tension drain away, and then he has to hold his breath because Hank’s hand slides lower, over Connor’s mound, and the tip of one finger touches Connor’s cock. It’s gentle, almost teasing, but Connor bites his lip and grips Hank’s thick arm, anchoring himself.

The finger moves lower, between Connor’s sensitive folds and the wiry hair there, and Connor can’t breathe, his arousal making his chest too tight. And then Hank touches his hole, wet and aching, and Connor lets out a soft sound and buries his face against Hank’s neck.

“Connor,” Hank breathes, toying with Connor’s folds, spreading the slickness until Connor knows Hank’s fingers must be messy with it. Connor lets out a sound of want, moving his leg over Hank’s thigh, opening himself up. He’s never exposed himself like this for anyone, and just the act of it, the trust in this, makes him want to come from just the slight tease alone.

He sobs when Hank slides a finger inside him, moving it slowly. It’s barely a stretch, but the excitement of it makes him quiver - the first time someone else has touched him like this. He can hear Hank’s own laboured breathing, the muttered words he can’t quite make out, rumbled in Hank’s low, soothing voice.

Then Hank presses his thumb over Connor’s cock, massaging it, flicking it playfully until Connor gasps his name. Humming with satisfaction Hank curves his finger up, and Connor can’t hold back the cry that swells from his throat. Hank lets out a soft chuckle and cranes his head down to kiss Connor’s brow.

“My beautiful prince,” he hums, and guides Connor to his back so he can kiss him properly, mouth soft on Connor’s, his tongue tasting the inside of Connor’s mouth. Connor spreads his legs apart, arms curling around Hank’s waist and back, holding him tight. He can feel Hank’s arousal press against his thigh, can feel it swell and harden, and arousal flares even stronger in Connor’s gut.

Connor reaches one hand between their bodies, past the firm swell of Hank’s stomach, past Hank’s hand still teasing at him.

“Please, I want-” he starts, but then falls silent, ashamed of his lust. Instead he wraps his fingers around Hank’s girth, touching him for the first time. The moan that bursts from him takes him by surprise, but he can’t help it - his husband is large, thick and hot in his hand, the skin of the shaft soft and velvety. Hank pulls his hand away with a choked sound, balancing himself on his forearms on either side of Connor’s head.

“Like t-this,” Connor stutter and guides Hank up, until the length of his erection rests against the nub of Connor’s cock. “Please,” he whispers.

Hank lets out a thick groan, his eyes falling closed, and he begins to move his hips slowly.

“Oh, god,” Connor moans, wrapping his legs around Hank’s wide hips. It feels so good, heavenly, the way Hank’s hardness drags over Connor’s small cock, rubbing it just right. Connor can feel his slick leak out of him, between his buttocks, no doubt making a mess of the bedding.

“Darling, my darling prince, Connor,” Hank chants, voice gone breathless and gravelly with lust as he picks up the rhythm, rutting into the cradle of Connor’s hips, brushing kisses over Connor’s cheeks and brow, the bristles of his beard leaving Connor’s skin flushed.

Every hitch of Hank’s hips presses over Connor’s cock, driving his lust higher until he’s crested on the edge of release. Connor clings to Hank and bucks his hips up, riding the ridge of Hank’s swollen erection, so needy that he thinks he’s close to tears, that nothing will ever be enough. He gets a hand between them and wraps his fingers around Hank’s cockhead, and Hank lets out a hoarse shout and thrusts down, his hips jerking as he spills over Connor’s belly, his seed thick and white on Connor’s trembling stomach.

Connor pets Hank through his release, ignoring the throbbing arousal between this own legs. Hank breathes in deep, nosing over Connor’s cheek and then capturing his mouth in a kiss, his tongue sliding against Connor’s.

“Let me,” Hank says, and takes Connor between two fingers, tugging and massaging until Connor can’t take it anymore, turns into a writhing, sobbing mess under his king. Hank’s fingers are clever, stroking him like he knows exactly what Connor needs, reading the notes written into the quivering of Connor’s body.

Connor’s nails dig half-moons into Hank’s biceps, and Hank bites kisses into the column of his neck when Connor throws his head back, strained cries spilling from his lips, a heady mix of swears and prayers and the name of his husband.

“That’s it, show me, darling,” Hank croons, flicking the tip of Connor’s cock with his thumb, and finally Connor falls apart, his body quaking as his orgasm courses through him and he curls up against Hank’s chest, muffling his shout into Hank’s heated skin.

Connor sobs through his release, shaking in Hank’s embrace. Hank pets him gently, murmuring soothingly. Connor has never felt this way on his own, no matter what he’s done. He thinks only Hank’s touch can do this to him, that this was meant to be. After everything, it had to be Hank.

He takes a deep breath and raises his head to look at Hank, who’s watching him a look of wonder and tenderness on his face.

“You’re-” Hank starts, and then shakes his head, as though trying to shake away a spell. Connor blinks slowly at him, feeling dazed, uncertain that this isn’t just a dream.

“You’re incredible,” Hank murmurs, and kisses Connor again, this time slow and languid. Connor holds him, his palms flat on the strong planes of Hank’s back, feeling the shift of muscles under battle-scarred skin.

“It took us so long,” Connor says, cupping Hank’s jaw. “But we got here.”

“Together,” Hank says, and gives him a smile that has a hint of sadness in it. Connor understands - there’s been so much hurt between them, but it’s being washed away, like spring rains wash away the remnants of a cold winter.

They curl up together under the covers, warm in the bed they share. Hank’s come is drying, sticky on Connor’s flat stomach, and Connor’s thighs are tacky from his own wetness. He doesn’t care - he luxuriates in it, the mess they made, the mark Hank has left on him.

Hank tucks him close to his chest, his chin resting on the top of Connor’s head. His beard tickles Connor’s brow, his still rushed heartbeat thudding against Connor’s palm on Hank’s chest. Wind whips the rain in sheets against the windows outside, and Connor curls tighter against Hank, fitting perfectly into the nest of Hank’s broad, barreled chest, the swell of his stomach, his thick thighs and strong arms.

Connor draws patterns into Hank’s skin, drowsy and sated, and Hank hums contentedly, his fingers playing with the soft hairs at the nape of Connor’s neck.

In the morning the first of the season’s frosts will cover the rain-soaked ground, growing crystals that glitter in the late autumn sunlight. But in their hearts something new blooms, cradled between them, shielded from the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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